


His Eyes Were Like Ice

by darkuponlight



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/M, Future Fic, Longing, Other, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-16
Updated: 2015-07-16
Packaged: 2018-04-09 14:20:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4352225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkuponlight/pseuds/darkuponlight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I believed for a moment in the brisk flow of time that we would heal together, that we would give each other the comfort and answers we were searching for. I believed that he could love me. He does not love me...he does not even hate me. His indifference is all he can give, and the mustered hopes I once had have long since scattered like withered leaves in the wind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Eyes Were Like Ice

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, so I actually managed to finish this a lot sooner than I thought, the updates in the Jon/Arya tag really inspired me to write this as quick as I could! Moving on...Warning: this entire fic is from Sansa’s POV and although the pairing here is technically Jon and Sansa, Arya’s memory is strongly present throughout, and translates itself into this dark and haunted version of Jon. And all around, a rather angsty fic without any smut and romance. Please, trust me, I absolutely do not ship Jon and Sansa (this is actually my “NOTP” ha) but I find Sansa to be an interesting character all her own and thought it’d be interesting to write this from her perspective (if my portrayal of both Jon and Sansa are in any way out of character I apologize). This fic was inspired by starbursts_and_kisses ‘Chasing the Winter Sun’, and follows her plot of an AU "in which the Manderlys were not able to retrieve Rickon and Bran remained beyond the Wall to become a greenseer."

He sits with his back to me, allowing me to drag my fingers through the midnight shadow of his hair.

The simple pleasure of having my hands upon him is satisfying, but he reacts very little to what I am doing. I have noticed that the times he allows my touch are the times that he seems the most remote.

_Most remote._

He is always remote; his grey eyes are vague and unfocused much of the time. Oddly, the only time they are sharp are the times when winter storms shake the walls of Winterfell and he will let me approach him. He does not allow me the privilege of sharing our marital bed; that I share alone. Nor does he ever make a move to claim his rights, to soothe his needs by assuaging his appetites with my body. He has no desire for the comfort I could give him, nor does he care one bit for the silent aching need I have for him.

_I love a shadow._

_I love a ghost._

"You don't love me, Sansa." He says. "You need me."

"How can you say that?" I ask him, cringing in shame at the plaintive note I hear in my own voice. I am  _steel ._ I will not bend. He stiffens under my hands, his shoulders going wooden as he slowly turns his head to glance back at me. Guilt flashes in his eyes.

He gets up and moves to the window and looks out at the snow falling. He stands in a way that I have become familiar with, spine straight, hands clasped.

"I have nothing to offer." He rasps. "I have nothing you wish to see."

He turns and bestows an apologetic smile. When he hurts me like this I wish to dismember him; I want to hurt him, I want to make him suffer only I know that he cannot suffer more than he already does. All that he wants is Arya; all that he has ever wanted is Arya. To kill him would be to liberate him. To kill him would be to admit defeat. To kill him would be to make my failure complete. And…he is all the family that is left to me.

He removes his shirt, exposing scarred flesh to my curious gaze, negligent in his movements.

Need wells up from somewhere deep within me. He rarely does this, allowing me a small closeness before once again firmly closing the iron gate that separates his soul from mine. That it is done with deep and heartfelt purpose I have no doubt. Perhaps it separates his soul from everything but her, and there lies a truth I have no wish to face.

"Do you fret over those that are lost to us?" He asks me.

"I fret over nothing." I lie to him, leaning to rest my head upon his shoulder. He allows this but makes no move to enclose me. To touch me.

"I thought as much." He says tiredly.

My eyes burn, a hollow and bitter pang beats against my ribs. Will anyone ever care to reach inside to see what lies hidden beneath?

_Life is not a song._

He turns slightly and presses against me, and I wind my arms around his neck. I am not deceived. I know that when he is near me his head is filled with torment and rage and thoughts of Arya, for he wears his pain freely, he cannot shield such thoughts from me. I can find anyone’s secrets now, Petyr made sure of that; I can find them in a smile, I can find them in the flicker of eyes. I can find whatever I like, probing his grey eyes until I have mined whatever truths I am searching for. I tighten my hold on him, hold the illusion close, tracing the long, smooth muscles of his back, the knobs of his spine, and I refrain from looking up into his eyes, for that will shatter the moment.

_His eyes are always cold._

He lifts a hand, skating it up my back and tentatively grasps a fistful of my hair. My head is slowly drawn back so that I can see the grey ice of his gaze. His eyes desperately search my face. He is trying to find her in me. Look all you want, you will not find our sister here, you will not find her wild grey eyes in my knowing blue ones, you will not find her long solemn face in my fine high cheekbones; sharp as razors now. You will not find Arya Stark. I am Sansa Stark… I am your wife. And isn't that enough?

His eyes are cold once again.

"I'm hungry." He mutters, releasing me and moving away. I am left to stand trembling and furious while he pulls his shift over his head. He trains his reluctant stare my way again. "You?"

It is not an invitation. I make no answer and he leaves the room without another word and after a moment I move to the window to watch him walk away to the godswood. You will not find her there either, I think sadly. When will you stop looking Jon?

Our siblings were lost to us, but by miracle, Jon and I remained. When the Manderly’s explained how our marriage was necessary to secure the North and restore peace to the Seven Kingdoms, I was relieved. He may have been my bastard half-brother once, but he was a different man now. War had made us reborn. He had visited death and come back. He had led men against the Others and saved the realm. He was a  _wolf_ , he was a  _dragon_ , and he was every bit as noble and brave as I could have ever imagined a prince to be.

I loved this man, I loved my husband. And I believed for a moment in the brisk flow of time that we would heal together, that we would give each other the comfort and answers we were searching for. I believed that he could love me. He does not love me...he does not even hate me. His indifference is all he can give, and the mustered hopes I once had have long since scattered like withered leaves in the wind.

His fierce love burns only for her. His fervent gaze bestowed only upon shadows he hopes reveal her face. Each time he leaves I wonder if it will be the time he simply does not return.

* * *

  _“She is not dead. I can still feel her” He said once with an open and pleading desperateness._

_"Then why has she not come to us?” I had replied. “Why has she not come to you?”_

_His expression was shaken and haunted, and without another word, he left. We had not spoken of her since._

* * *

 On this particular night he returns, cheeks pinked from the cold and melting snowflakes gleam like jewels in his hair. I imagine that when his glance passes over me it is less chilly and that when he answers my questions, his voice will have warmed.

"You were gone a long while." I say. He sits across the room from me, his eyes trained on the wavering light that spills in from the fireplace. His hair is damp, the ends curled with moisture.

"I was with Ghost.”

It is not an explanation but his voice is warmer because he is thinking about his wolf. Perhaps he is thinking of her. "Are you cold?" I ask. "The snow is thick." He takes no notice as I rise and stir the embers on the wide fireplace.

“Does it matter if I am cold? Will you warm me? "

All semblance of warmth flees from his tone and his posture and familiar furious despair wash through me.

_He is cruel._

"How absurd" I say bitterly.

"Yes, how absurd." He quietly agrees. “Absurd…” After a long pregnant moment of silence, he laughs, seeming to find genuine humor in what he had said. The sound is anguished and hollow.

"Why do you stay?" I cry. The windowpanes shiver and the fire trembles.

"I am biding." He says, seriously.

Biding for what? for Arya? to wait for her? to leave in search of her? Either way it always comes down to her. In this moment, more can be read from the eyes of a beast than from the burning glitter that sheens his grey orbs and I feel a shudder ripple through me. His continued stare is draining, as though he might at any moment lunge.

He does no such thing, of course, remaining as still as stone, but I can feel electricity swirling about me as though the air were charged with it.

"You seem to draw sustenance from misery. Yet I cannot help but wonder if you do not draw some satisfaction from baiting me."

The ice in his eyes breaks for a moment as he considers this.

"Perhaps." He says, looking directly into my eyes. "Though I gain little satisfaction from such exercises. It is more of an aid to my biding, you see."

I am unsure what he means by this, but I can no longer bring myself to try and follow the train of his thoughts. Perhaps some other night, but not this one. I wonder how it is that I have known him my entire life, yet I understand so little about how his mind works. Arya would know.  _Arya_ …I wish you were here. I’d kiss her dirty face and hold her and cry. Was she alive? Was she safe? She had not allowed herself to linger on thoughts of her siblings, especially Arya.

I cannot _._  Shaking the thought, I found myself back with Jon. We are wolves, we need each other. Please Jon, I am a wolf, too. Look at me.

_But Jon’s eyes are like ice._

His closed off presence provides no illumination whatsoever, and I find myself tired. The only clear thing in his mind is the shining memory of Arya’s face, impossibly bright in the dark corners of his consciousness.

He laughs again, while a dry sob escapes him. He rises and leaves the room without another word and a moment later I hear him descending the stairs. Jon has a secure bedroom, but he chooses to sleep in mine and Arya’s old girlhood chambers…in Arya’s bed. My own bed is a sumptuous one, absurdly large for one of my stature.

_It's meant for two people._

Somewhere in the distance a wolf was howling.


End file.
